A Million Pieces
by R.W. plus me
Summary: This is a short one-shot from Ron's point of view. It's sort of inside Ron's mind when he's at Shell Cottage in the Deathly Hallows. Warning, it's agsty but isn't that to be expected?


_Author's Note: Hi everyone! Well, I know I've been working on a longer story, and I'll have chapter fifteen posted on Saturday, but I thought in the meantime I would finally get around to writing something short with a different theme. This is in Ron's point of view and it's a one-shot, I won't be adding any more to it. I hope you all like it!_

***

He did not know that it was possible to miss something, someone, so much that it caused actual physical pain. It was a heavy weight in the bottom of his stomach; the way a smile didn't seem to fit. It was the feel of waking up and realizing that he had made a mistake, a mistake he could not fix. It was the feeling behind his eyes, the pressure to let tears go, tears he knew he did not deserve to set free. It was the feeling in his heart, that dull ache that plagued him, that reminded him of the damage he had caused, the fine web he had ripped apart.

Ever since he had fled to Shell Cottage, Ron spent an unnatural amount of time lying on the bed in the small room Bill had given him. He had no will to move, he had no desire to talk to anyone, he had no need to eat anything. He just laid there on the bed, staring up at the ceiling without seeing anything at all.

Bill had come in countless times to try and talk to him, but his attempts had been fruitless; Ron did not want to talk. He wanted to be alone, but, more than anything, he wanted to be with Hermione.

Even the sound of her name in his head made his heart tear, a small piece of it disappearing. When he closed his eyes all he could see was her face, glazed with tears as he packed his bags and left. When it rained, all her could hear was the sound of her voice, calling his name as he ran out of the tent, leaving his pride and his dignity behind. He was broken, left in a million of tiny pieces.

He had been at Shell Cottage a little over a month, but nothing had changed. Fleur was happy if he would concede to eating one meal a day, even if it was only a few bites of bread and a sip of water. He still had not talked to anyone, but the way they all scuttled around him made him sure that they knew what he had done. It made him even more ashamed, more eager to ignore their gazes.

Another night saw Ron lying on his back, staring unseeingly at the plaster above him. The room grew steadily darker as the sun began to set because Ron did not think he had the energy to stand up and turn on the lights. So, he let the room slowly fill with the grey light of the winter, filling the space with depressing shadows and darkness.

From somewhere behind him, the door banged open and the room was bathed in blinding light. Accustom to the darkness, Ron tilted his head to find the source of it, his eyes watering at its harshness.

Bill stood on the threshold, holding, of all things, a radio. He flicked on the lights in Ron's room and the grey light dissolved. Ron sat up in bed, glaring at his older brother, who had interrupted his moping.

"What are you doing?" Ron asked, his voice hoarse and cracked from the lack of use. It was the first thing he had said since he had gotten here. He had almost forgotten the sound of his own voice.

"You can't stay here all holed up forever Ron, you have to do something," Bill said, taking a chair from the desk and sitting down next to the bed. The legs of the chair scraped loudly on the wood floor and Ron winced. These sudden movements, this burst of life, pained him; he was not used to it.

"I don't want to do anything, I want to stay holed up," Ron muttered, and he lay back down on the pillows again, staring at the same indistinct spot on the pillow. He heard Bill sigh, as if he had been expecting this.

When several minutes passed without much progress, Bill sighed again and turned on the radio. Loud music filled the room, spreading out to its every corner and crevice. The sound of it was horrible to Ron; so fake, so meaningless.

"Turn it off," he said to Bill, his voice coming out flat and emotionless. "Turn it off now," the anguish of his voice broke through the music, shattering it.

He looked up and saw a look of pain on Bill's face; he knew how pitiful he must look to his older brother, alone and heartbroken. "Ron –" Bill said, but Ron shook his head, determined.

"Turn it off, please," he said, the last word breaking in his throat as the familiar pressure built up behind his eyes again.

Bill looked at Ron, and Ron looked at the far wall, determined not to meet his brother's penetrating stare. After several minutes Bill left, banging the door shut behind him. He left the radio on, and Ron slowly blocked the sound out.

The pressure behind Ron's eyes was so strong he did not know how much longer he could hold it in. He had not cried for a long time; he was scared he would not be able to do it. A slow, melancholic song came onto the radio, and the pressure eased as the salty rivers made their way down his face.

Ron's body was wracked with sobs; it seemed as though once they started, they would not stop. He cried for what he had done, and what he had lost. He cried for what he had left behind, and the mistakes he had made. He cried because for once in his life, it seemed as if he was about to get the one thing he wanted more than anything else, only to let her slip away in a foolish mistake. He cried for what he had said, and all of the things he could never take back. He lastly cried selfishly for himself, wondering if such pain would ever end, if it would ever be possible to be whole again.

The harsh lights beat down glaringly, the brightness seemed all wrong to him. He fished around in his pocket for the Deluminator. Locating it, he opened it and clicked it, vanishing all of the light in the room, allowing himself once again to sink into comfortable darkness.

The black seemed to press down on him, blocking his lungs. Tiny stars popped in front of him as he continued to sob. He was sure others would be able to hear him, but he did not care. All he cared about was ridding himself of this pain, of finally letting go.

The metal of the Deluminator was cool his hands. He looked down at it, glinting silver in the moonlight that leaked into his room. He turned it over in his hand, looking at it through his tears.

He was suddenly overcome in a fit of anger. He was alone, and all he had was a stupid old cigarette lighter that could suck light. This was all he was given, all he had. He had lost everything else, he had broken everything he had build. The anger, a manifestation of his grief, consumed him, and he threw the Deluminator against the wall. He did not want to look at it, an object that had once given him such hope. An object that he had once foolishly thought could be useful.

There were voices. At first, Ron ignored them because he thought it was coming from the radio. But he realized that those sounds could not resonate in his heart, where there was an unexplained warmth. He looked down at his chest, wondering what was happening. Slowly, he got off the bed, turning off the radio, his hand still on a spot very close to his heart.

He could hear the voices again, muffled. It seemed to be coming from another source, but the sound of it echoed in his heart. He knelt down to the small piece of metal he had thrown at the wall, picking it up, his mouth open in wonder.

"_Ron_"

His heart burst into a thousand tiny pieces, each one falling down, down to the earth. It was Hermione. The sound of her voice seemed to fill him up with happiness, the sound he had yearned to hear for so long. Slowly, all of the pieces began to fit back together, he felt himself to beginning to become whole again. Suddenly, all of the darkness gave way to light at the sound of it. He wanted more, he needed to hear more. He bent his head closer to the Deluminator, shaking it eagerly, waiting for her voice.

"Come on, come on," he said impatiently, but there was only muttering, incomprehensive words.

He shut the Deluminator, hoping that if he opened it he would be able to hear her voice again. But when he opened it again all he got was a ball of light.

It was not the normal light the Deluminator usually produced, it was blue-ish, and Ron instinctively knew that it was different. It was the kind of light a portkey admitted right before it left. And suddenly, with a spark of recognition, Ron knew what was about to happen.

He ran around the room, collecting the possessions that had made their way out of its rucksack. The blue-ish light was floating outside his bedroom window, waiting patiently for him. His blood pounded in his ears as he stuffed things at random into his bag, his hands shaking with excitement.

He thundered down the stairs, forgetting so say anything to Bill and Fleur. Outside, the blue light glowed in front of him, twinkling in the dark, welcoming like an old friend. Ron did not know how he knew it, but he was sure it was going to take him to Hermione.

He stood in front of the orb of light, wondering what to do next. Slowly, it began to float gracefully toward him. He reached an arm out to touch it, but lowered it after a second. Like he knew what the portkey would do, he also knew that he could not touch it.

It reached him and absorbed into his skin, right where his heart was. It filled him with a warmth he had not felt since he had stormed out of the tent. It was the warmth that she gave him, the warmth he felt every time he looked at Hermione, every time his hand grazed hers, every time he made her laugh.

He knew what he had to do. Hitching his bag up so that it sat higher on his shoulder, he looked back at Shell Cottage, the place that had housed all of his sorrow. He already felt separated from that part of himself. The Ron had had stayed at Shell Cottage had been broken into a million pieces; the one that stood outside of it, with the warmth in his heart that would guide him to love, was whole, stronger. Bill was standing by the window in the kitchen, watching. Ron raised his hand, the small gesture meaning what words could not. Bill raised his hand as well, and Ron smiled. It felt foreign, but it also felt good.

He turned on the spot, twisting into darkness and places unknown. The warmth in his heart took him where he needed to go, where he had always belonged.

_Take me to her_, he thought. _Take me to Hermione._


End file.
